The Fourth

Slow heavy clouds wandering east-
hot, as every fourth of July seems to have been.
I listen, there are so many birds, A feast
of greens, grass, oaks and cedars seen
so still, or gently wafted, as the soft air
stirs. My loves have all gone sailing,
my wife, son, and the children, all so light, so fair.
This good fortune seems a blessing
I barely deserve, while my future years diminish.
I write this and wait their clamorous return,
when we will picnic on the beach, and finish
when, within grand fireworks, the sky will burn.
And so I live, getting past the acute pains
of arthritic nights, while in me simple joy rains